Page 103 of The Sugar Maple Inn

She’d just been too much of an idiot to listen.

She had to get away from this place. Needed to be back in the comfort of Solace Springs. Didn’t care how much it cost. She looked around the unfamiliar Seattle street. She had no idea where she was. No idea how to get back to Solace Springs. No money for a cab or a bus or anything else because all she had was this stupid tiny clutch.

But she knew one thing for certain: She was done with Reese Spencer.

Thirty-Nine

Reese

Reese was laughing at something David Harrison was saying about municipal bonds, pretending to find it interesting. All he wanted was to get back to Grace, when he realized he’d lost sight of her.

He scanned the ballroom, looking for champagne silk and pink-tipped hair. Nothing.

A flutter of unease moved through his chest.

“Excuse me,” he said to David, not waiting for a response before moving through the crowd. His height gave him an advantage, letting him see over most heads, but Grace wasn’t by the bar, wasn’t near the silent auction tables, wasn’t anywhere he could see.

Then he spotted movement near the ballroom exit. A flash of champagne silk. A woman walking too fast, heels in her hand.

Grace.

What the hell?

Reese started after her, his long strides closing the distance, but there were too many people. A cluster of tech executives blocking the path. A waiter with a tray of champagne. Someone grabbing his arm to ask about the sanctuary fire.

“Not now,” Reese growled, shaking them off. But more bodies appeared, a whole group wanting to discuss conservation funding, and by the time he broke free, Grace was gone.

He shoved through the remaining crowd—heard someone’s indignant “excuse me!”—and didn’t care when his elbow caught a waiter’s tray, sending champagne glasses crashing to the marble floor. Crystal shattered. People gasped.

Reese kept moving.

He burst through the lobby doors just in time to see Grace, barefoot on the streets of Seattle, climbing into an Uber.

“Grace!” he shouted.

She paused, turned to look at him and Christ, the expression on her face. Pure rage. Then she hopped into her Uber and it pulled away from the curb, disappearing into Seattle traffic.

“Fuck.” Reese stood there on the sidewalk, breathing hard, staring at the taillights fading into the distance. “Fuck.”

What the hell just happened?

He pulled out his phone, dialed her number. It rang once, twice, then went straight to voicemail. Like she’d turned it off.

Reese tried again. Same result. His chest felt tight, panic rising in a way he hadn’t felt since—since when? Since never? He didn’t panic. He solved problems. He fixed things.

But he couldn’t fix this if he didn’t know what this was.

He needed to know what was wrong first.

Reese turned and strode back into the hotel, ignoring the stares from people who’d clearly witnessed his champagne-smashing exit. He scanned the ballroom, looking for the last person he’d seen Grace talking to.

There—red bob, green dress, standing by the bar looking supremely satisfied with herself. He didn’t recognize her from any of the usual circuit events. But she’d been talking to Grace and now Grace was gone, and this woman looked like she’d just won something.

“Excuse me,” Reese said, not bothering with pleasantries. “You were talking to Grace Sullivan a few minutes ago. What did you say to her?”

The woman turned, eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry?”

“Grace Sullivan,” he repeated. “Champagne dress, pinkish hair, was standing right here with you. She left upset. What did you say to her?”